


The Devil of New Orleans

by WritingandSmiting



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1930s, Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Alternate Universe - Human, Canonical Character Death, Character Biography, Character Study, Creole, Creole Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Dark Past, Historical, Historical References, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Louisiana, New Orleans, Other, Past Lives, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23003890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingandSmiting/pseuds/WritingandSmiting
Summary: The year is 1932 and New Orleans is witnessing an outbreak of serial kidnappings. Alastor, who lives in the Garden District with his aging mother and servants, listens as the radio warns the public of a stalker. He knows they are wrong, though. The best pigs are the ones that come to you.This is the story of how Alastor ended up in Hell.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. Home

Alastor was awake before the rising sun. His routine started early, nearly as early as the servants that roamed the grounds. He could see them out his window down below, tending to his mother's rose gardens and watering the hydrangeas with forced smiles and soft songs on their lips.

“Let the lovely little tunes drown out your sorrows,” Alastor whispered and stretched his arms over his head. Rolling quickly out of bed, his nimble fingers flicked the bulky radio on and the sound of saxophones played along with the strings of a lazy guitar. He loved music and felt that any place was dull without it. Whether it be dinner theater or a parade, music made an atmosphere.

Alastor learned to dance at a young age. It was basically a necessity for a family of their status, and he remembered his first public appearance with a French ambassador’s daughter at a party hosted by his parents. A man named Louis Armstrong had been invited to play, and though he was native to New Orleans, he’d been enjoying a rather successful career in New York. When gossip spread that he was going to visit New Orleans to see family, Alastor’s parents had offered him quite the job to play jazz at the event. Alastor had decided he’d pay anything to see that man perform again. Soulful music was not hard to come by, but a man with a vision like that sure was. Alastor’s dream was to have dinner with him sometime.

Speaking of dinner, it was a Monday, wasn’t it? Alastor snapped back to the present. On St. Charles Avenue, red beans and rice would be cooked for dinner in every household. He had asked the cooks to use the meat he’d gotten from one Mr. Allwood. Alastor didn’t have to wonder if they’d done it - they’d be damned not to. He checked his watch and hummed along to the tunes.

“Best to not keep her waiting,” he mumbled with a grin as he briskly walked to his wardrobe and grabbed his favorite pinstripe suit. He enjoyed mornings the most, he thought. Alastor didn’t have to spend mornings with anyone. In a world full of socialites, that was harder to find the alone time than one would think. He’d requested a hunting lodge to be built last winter for that very reason, near the swamps where the fog rolled thick and the Cajuns hunted alligator. Alastor didn’t have to worry about a mess when working there. Still, it was not the perfect representation of his home.

This was mostly his home, with the columns rising high from ground to roof and the branches of Southern live oaks offering shade from the sun in summer. Alastor lived here with his aging mother, in the house that she had lived in with her grandmother before her and so on. Their pictures hung on the walls and their white gloves were enclosed under a glass viewing case. Yes, this was mostly his home. The rational side of him wished for nothing more but the immaculate, pedicured decorations. However, he also often envisioned that swamp of green he escaped to, not just outside the window of his lounge, but up to his waist in his dreams. Alastor could easily picture oozing algae and curling vines tearing through the family crystal when he closed his eyes. He envisioned 4-inch long cockroaches shifting under the canvas of the paintings on the foyer. A rushing tide of moss would cling to his thighs as he waded where the hallway should be, still dressed in his best suit. Deer would watch him from the banks of the water and their eyes would glow white in the mist, just like the gators which lurked below. Above him, chandeliers would hang. Perhaps that was where Alastor felt truly at home, but such a place could never exist.

He’d been so engrossed in his reveries that he barely noticed he’d dressed on auto-pilot. Looking at himself in the mirror, Alastor grinned as warmly as possible. Humans didn’t like smiles that were too large, because being too happy was just unrealistic. Alastor wanted them to like him, but not necessarily because he cared if they did. It just made his life easier to be liked. When people liked you, they came to you, and Alastor was never one for chasing. Maybe when he was younger he had not smiled much at all, but soon he began to understand what his father meant when he said ‘you’re never fully dressed without a smile!’. Father had smiled no matter the occasion; he smiled while signing a business deal, punishing a servant, and on his deathbed three years ago. Smiling was a sign of power, so Alastor never stopped smiling.

Checking the time, Alastor nearly gasped and remembered exactly who and what he was dressing for. Spectator’s shoes clicked down the staircase and he gripped the bronze-capped railing to turn sharply towards the parlor. As he did, he nearly ran into a small, elderly woman who he nearly didn’t recognize at first with her bonnet on.

“Oh dear, Pearl, please forgive me,” he touched a hand over his heart which was not racing the way he pretended it did.

“Nothing to forgive, Mister Alastor, how are you this morning, sir?” Pearl was holding an empty silver tray in her hands.

“Quite fantastic! How’s mother this morning?”

“Miss Cécile is doin’ well, Mister Alastor, but you best get a move on before the tea finishes steeping,” she warned with a weak laugh on her lips.

Alastor hated sweet tea.

“You’re right, thank you, Pearl,” he waved then strode into the parlor to see his mother. Her hair got greyer every time he saw it.

“Goodmorning, Mother,” he sat across from her and smiled apologetically. He was 5 minutes late.

“Goodmorning, Allie,” she always said that name with affection but he never liked it very much. He was not a fan of nicknames, and she’d called him that since he was a baby. So, it stuck to him like mud on shoes.

Pearl hobbled back in, “Miss Cécile, would you like me to pour your tea for you?”

“No no, Pearl, I can do it,” Alastor’s mother dismissed Pearl and Alastor watched the leaf water fill his cup. Disgusting.

Seldom did they have actually anything to talk about. Alastor loved his mother, but they could only discuss the mardi gras plans so much before he wanted to rip his hair out. He liked the party, not the planning. The radio in the parlor was not playing swing music like the one Alastor had upstairs. Instead, it was tuned to a news station.

"The cooks told me you changed the meat last minute. Why?” his mother did not seem as interested in the meat as she did in making conversation.

“Come now, you can never quite tell how swine is going to taste. They might all look the same, but they're definitely not. It's rare that I get clean meat like this and at such a good price," he confessed and took a drink of the leaf water.

“You’re as much of a cook as your grandmother, and you don’t even need to be. I’ll never understand your tastes,” she sighed, “but whatever you suggest is usually good. I have no complaints,” she glanced at the radio as the signal weakened then crackled back to life.

_"A week later, and still no sign of missing woman..."_

Cécile feigned a stronger concern than she felt. Alastor suspected she was somewhat excited about the conversation it would spark at the country club. “Allie, dear, did you hear about that young girl? She went missing not too long ago, near the French Quarter.”

Alastor’s eyebrows raised and he tilted his head. “French Quarter? Are they sure she’s not just passed out somewhere?” he chuckled as his mother swatted him with her handkerchief.

“I raised you better than to joke like that! Learn to love your manners.”

Yes, perhaps she did raise him better. Alastor shifted his gaze out the window. He did not love many things. He loved his mother, his recipes, and the river of mud that his home of New Orleans hugged. However, what he really loved was food. Contrary to his lean build, Alastor was quite the foodie, and he loved pigs the most. Pigs were something of a talent for Alastor to understand. The pig meat he’d suggested the servants use that night had been named Beth. Beth was Mr. Allwood's favorite if Alastor remembered correctly because she was more of a prize than her siblings. He remembered that conversation, when he'd first become interested in Beth, and asked Mr. Allwood about her as she ran around the barn.

_"Oh yeah, Beth is a real good one. I imagine she'll bring us more money than her siblings, that's for sure. They're too weak for the world, I'll tell ya, Al. But her? You’ll love her,”_ Mr. Allwood had slapped Alastor on the shoulder, friendly-like. Alastor did not like being touched, they were not friends, and he did not love many things. 

Mr. Allwood had been right in one way, though. She was a good one. Alastor was brought back to the present by his mother’s clicking tongue.

_"It's suspected she was traveling home from a party by herself, which her father says is unusual of her…"_

“See? That there will do it. Traveling alone - and as a girl, in the French Quarter at night! A lady should always be escorted by a man, poor dear,” she poured more tea.

“Yes, poor dear, indeed. I don’t know what I would do if I was her father right now. He must have hired help all over the city looking for her.” He had. Alastor had run into a couple of them, ex-cops and organized private investigators. It had only been a week, but he had to admit, the father was persistent.

_".... as of now, the family is offering a hefty reward to anyone who can provide valid information that aids them in finding their daughter..."_

Across from him, Cécile started to look genuinely worried. What if she lost a child? She might just die herself.

“Don’t worry, mother,” he slid his hand across the table to touch hers, “I’ll keep my eyes peeled as well. I’ll make sure I escort whatever lady looks like they may be alone - God forbid her chaperone to leave her behind. After all, you raised me better.”

_".... and so we continue to wait for updates from the police in the case of a missing woman, Beth Allwood."_


	2. Mr. Baptiste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor's first victim was his favorite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something new this chapter: The introduction of Rosie!

Alastor couldn’t remember when he’d begun his obsession with fine meats. It may have been when he was a child and Pearl taught him how to kill chickens and cook them, but he didn’t think that was quite it. It may have actually started when he was forced to spend time with Faust Baptiste. It was not uncommon for his mother to have tea with her friends in the afternoon at the country club, and that was where he had met Mr. Baptiste. It was nearly a decade ago, and so his memory of it was fuzzy, but he knew two things were certain. One, “Mista” Baptiste was one of the most annoying people you could ever meet. When he spoke, Alastor saw little more than swine, wrinkling its nose and screeching about every waking issue in the world. 

Most of his mother’s friends were like this. However, Mr. Baptiste was special, because he happened to piss Alastor off the most. Why? Because he liked Alastor the most and made a rather uncomfortable show of it every time he was near. Mr. Baptiste tried to impress him. These ways varied. From bragging about his investments in stocks to exaggeratedly commenting on Alastor’s hunting gear, he tried. This behavior became unbearable when Mr. Baptiste attempted to say a hand on one of his servants. Alastor could not oppose much of Mr. Baptiste’s actions, but all it took was one shove to Pearl to topple her over, and Alastor had been up, gripping the man’s wrist like a viper and smiling wider than he ever had. It was then, for the first time, that he imagined crushing the bone under the flesh and turning Mr. Baptiste’s hand raw - to little more than a pig’s foot. The moment had not lasted long, as Mr. Baptiste scrambled away. Alastor vaguely remembered saying something about continuing their game of poker, and the thought was forgotten.

Alastor despised people who were followers. Not only was it a sign of weakness, but it also was a sign of disrespect. Alastor was nothing if not respectful. Mr. Baptiste, on the other hand, pushed his luck too much. He was a social climber to boot - Alastor knew for a fact that Mr. Baptiste was after his family's money. With friendship not working, the only way he could get his grubby fingers on it was if he attempted to marry off his only daughter. Try, he did.

The first time Alastor met Mr. Baptiste’s daughter was at an evening social. Such occasions always attracted the highest levels of old money, but the nouveau riche had begun to attend as well. That was why Mr. Baptiste was there. Alastor’s mother had more or less forced him to go- “you must get out of that hideous studio you hide in and meet some young ladies” she’d chastised him on more than one occasion.

And at first, he had not minded. Alastor was having a nice time mingling with the guests. “You have a silver tongue and a lot to say,” his father once told him, and he supposed it was true. People seemed to like to listen to him, at least. That was why he spent so much time at the local radio studio. It was not “hideous”. It was one of the few fun things in a city that cared about little more than diamonds. 

He was happily avoiding Mr. Baptiste when his mother snuck up to his side, politely apologizing to the owner of the radio station Alastor was talking with, and leading him away by the cuff of his sleeve. 

“As happy as I am that you’re making friends with local entertainers,” she didn’t sound genuinely happy, even as she smiled tightly at other guests they passed, “I have someone for you to meet.” Alastor had mentally groaned in agony as they stopped in front of Mr. Baptiste. He already knew him, why was-

There was a girl standing behind him.

“Alastor, Mr. Baptiste would like you to formally meet his daughter, Rosalie,” his mother looked at him expectantly.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Alastor responded as quick as a well-oiled machine, smiling as always but not at all certain as to why he needed to be meeting Mr. Baptiste’s daughter.

“Rosie is fine,” Rosalie added, making her father’s upper lip twitch. Alastor’s mother hesitated.

“...Rosie is about a year younger than you. You probably don’t remember her, but you played together a few times as children, back when her mother was still alive,” Alastor’s mother helpfully added. Alastor actually did remember, now that he thought about it, but only flashes of memory like a picture-show presented themselves - a small girl, singing with him, playing piano with him, and laughing with him. This girl behind Mr. Baptiste with dim eyes could not be the same girl. 

“She’s grown into quite the beauty,” Alastor’s mother continued, “and she’s so very smart.”

“I keep insisting that she doesn’t need to spend all her time reading or looking over my business documents,” Mr. Baptiste added with an underlying scolding as he glanced at his daughter. Rosie upturned her nose and looked back defyingly, to which Alastor was amusedly surprised. Mr. Baptiste continued, “In fact, it’s probably better if she settled down. I’m positive she’ll get her act together once she meets the right man to build a-“

“Nonsense, I’ve always got my nose buried in some book or another. She and I can discuss that,” Alastor said, cutting Mr. Baptiste off even as his mother gaped at him in his rare rudeness. 

Alastor turned to look back at Rosie and raised a skeptical brow. She regarded him now at least, as she would not even look at him beforehand. Still, he could not catch her gaze completely and eventually her eyes settled back to looking at the floor. His mother hesitated before trying to reign the conversation back in. 

“…Well, usually Alastor is much more of a gentleman than he’s displayed tonight, as you well know, Mr. Baptiste. Why you would not imagine how kind he is to the groundskeepers and maids! He has the real makings of a father, I’d say!”

Alastor’s smile did not drop but instead turned thin-lipped.

“Splendid! Well, Miss Cécile, I also have no doubt that Rosie will be a good mother. Ever since her own mother died, she’s done quite well in taking care of me. She cooks, she cleans, sometimes she even sings - when she doesn’t think I’m near, of course” Mr. Baptiste smiled at Rosie and the girl’s jaw clenched, not meeting his eyes. Mr. Baptiste gripped her wrist where Alastor’s mother couldn't see, but he did. Rosie promptly tried to adjust her uncomfortable stance. 

Everything clicked in place for Alastor in a matter of seconds and he felt a lurch in his stomach that had nothing to do with the wine or the heat of so many bodies in one place. It was simply pure disgust. “Pardon me,” he simply said, his smile nearly a grimace as he turned on his heel and strode off, trying to put as much distance between himself and the situation as possible. 

Alastor was nearly at the balcony of his home when his mother slid in front of him, lips curled downwards in a frown and both hands on her hips.

“Alastor! What is wrong with you?!” she hissed. Alastor wanted to ask what was wrong with her, but there are some things his father did that he would not - like fight with her, in a public place. 

“It was hardly appropriate-”

“Appropriate? Alastor, you are nearly 20 years old, and I am quickly running out of options thanks to what standards of yours I cannot seem to figure out!”

None. He had none, for he had no interest in useless things like marriage and especially no interest in children. 

“There are plenty of men who do not-”

“Plenty?” She sounded utterly astonished at the notion. “Alastor, this is for the good of your future. A merger with the Baptiste family would ensure Rosie’s future as well, and Mr. Baptiste has been a close friend of mine for quite some time. It is only fair to give her a chance-”

“Is that what Mr. Baptiste told you? That she deserves a chance because of your friendship with him?” Alastor knew better. Rosie did not want to be there. 

“Look, Alastor.” She sighs, looking concerned now “The Baptiste’s are a good family. He only wants what is best for her.” 

Alastor looked across the room for Mr. Baptiste. He was by a nearby table, leaning over Rosie and gritting his teeth as he spoke to her in frantic whispers. Alastor could almost feel the spittle hitting her face as she stared back at him, undaunted.

“That is a lie,” Alastor replied with a condescending look on his face.

Alastor’s mother’s eyes widened. This was not the first time he had openly implied negative intentions about her friends, but it was the first time her competence was questioned because of it. 

“What did you say?” she asked. 

“I said, that would be a lie. Mr. Baptiste does not care about her future.” Alastor wondered how that was not plain as daylight. 

Alastor’s mother gaped at him and raised her hand. Alastor did not even flinch.

But the hit never came. Instead, a voice spoke up. “Miss Cécile, if I may?”

Alastor looked over his mother’s shoulder to see Rosie, standing as confidently as could be. Needing to maintain the appearance, his mother used her raised hand to brush back a lock of her thin hair and nodded. “My apologies, dear-”

“No apologies. I was the one being ill-mannered earlier. I would very much like to talk to Mr. Alastor, though, alone. I believe he and I will get along quite well once we get the chance to speak to one another,” Rosie smiled brightly. To Alastor, it looked fake. 

His mother hesitated before nodding. “Oh, yes, of course, my dear. I will go talk to your father for a moment but we will be close by,” her mood seemed to instantly improve and she gave Alastor a glance with raised eyebrows. He was not supposed to ruin this turn of events. 

Left alone with Rosie, Alastor considered what to say to her. 

“Please just call me Alastor. The “Mr.” part is unnecessary,” he finally said. 

“That’s all well and good, but I am actually more interested in what made you turn around and walk off, Alastor,” Rosie’s too bright smile faded into something real and Alastor squinted. 

“I did not appreciate the suddenness, that’s all,” Alastor held his hands behind his back. 

Surprisingly though, what Rosie said next was not what he had expected. 

“Well I did not appreciate the interaction in any way, shape, or form, so that is good to hear.”

Alastor knew he’d been right that she was uncomfortable, but he had not thought she would openly admit it. Women didn’t do that. 

“Your father will more than lose his temper if he hears you talking like this to me,” Alastor’s tone held no underlying threat, though. 

“Which is why you won’t tell him I said it,” Rosie said so matter-of-factly and Alastor decided she was right, he wouldn’t. He also decided he was wrong beforehand, this was the girl he played with as a child. Her laugh sounded the same. 

She continued, “Alastor, I intend to apologize for my father’s brazen behavior towards you and let you know it is not my intention to force you into something you also don’t want. My father thinks I’m a fool, but I do pick up on more than he believes. You were as uncomfortable as me. Am I wrong?” Rosie raised an eyebrow.

Alastor shook his head at the same time. “You’re not, but it is my turn to apologize. Because of me, it seems you got a real lashing, my dear.” 

“I did,” Rosie chuckled softly, “but I am used to it.” 

Alastor’s eyes flicked down to her wrist and he caught the bruise there before Rosie’s other hand could pull her sleeve down over it. 

“Ironic, considering you’re the one being forced to do things she does not want to do. You do make it worse by reading books in front of him.” 

“Says the man who works at the radio station down by the river. You will be caught one day, Alastor, and when you are, it’ll be a nightmare,” Rosie countered. 

Despite himself, Alastor’s eyes widen and he ends up laughing. How had she known about that? Perhaps she was not bad company like he had thought. 

“Dear, I imagine it will be! I am surprised, though. I did not think any spawn of Mr. Baptiste’s could be as delightful as you have turned out to be,” Alastor admits. 

Rosie seems to agree. “My mother raised me, not him. He only ever worked. When Mother died many years ago, we got more of the help. And then, 5 years ago, I became the ‘lady of the house’ and took on those jobs. Since then, it has been… difficult,” she explained. Alastor didn’t doubt it. Mr. Baptiste was single-handedly one of the most infuriating, squealing pigs he had ever met. 

“You are not the first man he has tried to win over, either. I believe you are the 8th I’ve spoken to just this week, Alastor,” Rosie confessed. Alastor could see the bags under her eyes from as close as he stood. It didn’t suit her at all, but he imagined he must look the same. His mother had been right when she said she had been trying everything to gain Alastor’s interests in a woman, but to keep saying no was exhausting. 

Pausing for a moment to think, Alastor looked up. Mr. Baptiste was with his mother, laughing with her and standing too close. He was offering her wine and smiling like a weasel, all teeth and gums and no light in his eyes. Alastor looked back to Rosie.

“...An idea comes to me, my dear. If you are as cunning a woman as I think you are, I think you just might like it.” Alastor stepped closer and quietly, they spoke. All the while, Rosie’s dim eyes turned bright again. 

From across the room, Alastor glanced every now and then to check that Mr. Baptiste was seeing them. The wretch of a man was grinning like the winner at a game of cards, who’d bet it all and earned it all. The pig probably thought he was watching his plan unfold, that his daughter would soon marry rich.

However, with two matching grins, Alastor and Rosie decided three things that night. One, they did not want to marry. Two, they never wanted to have children. And three, they would pretend they wanted to marry each other to halt new suitors. It would be the most drawn-out courtship in the world. 

As the night ended, Alastor was forced to say goodbye to Rosie and her father. Mr. Baptiste had looked up at him.

“Now son, I’m glad she apologized, but as we move forward, please never hesitate to discipline her if she decides to act high and mighty. She knows much better than that,” he smirked. 

“I don’t think I could ever raise my hand to do such a thing, but I appreciate the warning,” Alastor may have replied to Mr. Baptiste, but he was looking at Rosie, smiling as though they shared a secret no one else in the world knew. And then the eye contact was broken and a clap rang through the air. Rosie held her stinging cheek with grit teeth and trembling shoulders. 

“Of course you can, dear boy. And you,” Mr. Baptiste leaned over his daughter, “let that be a lesson on what will happen if you behave the way you did tonight again.” Then, as if nothing had happened, the swine left with his daughter and Alastor watched silently until their car was mixed in with the others and out of sight. 

Alastor decided on his own something he had always thought, but never with such intensity. He was going to slaughter that filthy pig if it was the last thing he did.


End file.
